Hardly Quinn
by Penultimate
Summary: Harleen Quinzel, Harley Quinn, oh, ha-ha-hardly Quinn, if Gotham only knew... But I'll tell them. Oh, yeah, I'll tell 'em, because I'm the real carnival act around here. And the joke, poor little Quinzel, is on you. J/H, told from an Arkham inmate's POV.
1. Wait Here

**A/N: All anonymous reviews will be answered via my LiveJournal, a link to which can be found on my profile. Enjoy.**

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><p><strong>WARNING: This fanfic will include, but is not limited to: abuse, character death, mild language.<strong>

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><p><strong>Overarching Disclaimer: I own nothing but the ideas and my little OC. <strong>

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><p>He was the talk of the asylum—the biggest laugh any of us lunatics had had since Crane had gone and flown the cuckoo's nest. He was the very thing we idolized, a god in our eyes, and we were drawn to him like moths to a flame.<p>

Moths to a flame—we couldn't help ourselves, even though we knew he'd do us more harm than good.

I saw him as the guards walked him in. He had six escorts, one covering him from every angle. He seemed lucid enough, his head bent down and his eyes on the floor. He never made a single effort to escape, didn't even look up to get a good look at his surroundings. I thought he seemed bored, but then again what do I know?

I'm crazy.

He was headed for his own padded cell, I'm sure. I only saw him for a second or two, but I could see that his hair was soaked and that the greasepaint was dripping down his face—they must have shoved him in the showers before letting him anywhere near the rest of us. I had heard rumors that outside these whitewashed walls he had sported a purple suit, but in here he had been stripped of that, too. Instead, he wore the white scrubs characteristic of every Arkham Asylum inmate.

The thing that stood out to me—that stood out to everyone—was his scars. They spread from the corners of his lips like lightning bolts across a dark sky. They were bright, accented by that red paint, made sharper by the white and black makeup that paled the rest of his face in comparison. Even from our cells we could sense he was something special, unique, a different kind of crazy altogether.

The kind of magnetizing, "moth to a flame" crazy that we liked.

Before he came to Arkham, I don't think any of us realized just how much we craved someone like him. Before, we were all our own assorted kinds of crazy. But _his_ kind of crazy took the cake, and we recognized that. We would be only too happy to let him tell us what to do, to have him order us around. After all, it was one thing for a warden to give us orders—a warden who was so superior to us, so much more sane and normal and better than we were. But that crazy, chaotic soul was the best of our kind, and we'd dive off Wayne Tower if he told us to.

I know I would have, anyway.

Days passed, then weeks. Every day he passed by my door on his way to an hour of solitary yard time. Believe it or not, even Gotham's most feared and reviled got yard time—if you could call that mausoleum of a room a "yard." It was an enormous room, white walled and stone floored, with high up windows made of iron bars and bulletproof glass. It was a "yard" for special cases and high profile solitary patients.

When I had first been admitted to Arkham, I had spent my "yard time" there, too. It was only after proving I wasn't all that much of a threat that I was finally admitted into the yard with the rest of the general population. But regardless of where I spent my free time, my cell was a lonely one found on solitary row—a long hall of padded cells, each a small living space barely fit for whatever one person was forced to reside in each.

Some days I peeked out to catch a glimpse of him, some days I didn't even bother. After a while I figured out he had a cell across the hall and four doors down from little old me. It wasn't all that hard. I just listened for the close of his cell door is all. Only took a week or two of really dedicated listening, but I figured it out. I mean, I may be crazy, but I'm not stupid.

The longer he stayed, the more rumors I heard about him. About what kind of trouble he'd caused in Gotham before his admission to Arkham, about how he'd given the Batman a run for his money. I heard that every day he spent his yard time sitting in the middle of the room, legs crossed, mouth shut, almost catatonic. In fact, I heard that if it weren't for what little conversation he had with his shrink, the staff would have taken him for a catatonic—he was so quiet, so reserved, never made a threat, never even made a move towards any of the workers, so well behaved, you would hardly think he'd ever caused an ounce of trouble in his life let alone been responsible for the deaths of all those people...

Speaking of shrinks, I heard that one of the feelgood doctors, Harleen Quinzel, was the one analyzing and treating him. Harleen Quinzel? Ha, now _that_ was a laugh. We called her a feelgood doctor 'cause she didn't exactly make any progress with any of us patients—yeah, she asked a lot of questions, and sure, you could tell she was trying, but she was a bit of a rookie when it came to our kind of crazy, and we were the professionals.

And, hell, if we were professionals, then what did that make _him_? A freakin' doctor of crazy, that's what.

One day I saw the "doctor" walking back down the hall, on his way to his cell after his hour of yard time. I was feeling pretty good (my medication normally came round about the same time they took him out to the yard, so by the time he was back I was usually pretty high in the sky), and while most of the other patients were rattling their doors and shouting at him and the guards, an idea occurred to me.

When I was a kid, my twin brother and I used to talk to each other through the walls of our bedrooms. We might get in trouble and get sent to our rooms, or we might be made to go to bed early. But we were really close (I guess most twins are, but I wouldn't know a lot about "most" twins, I just know about us), and so after a while we thought we'd be clever and started teaching ourselves Morse code.

Now, I don't remember a whole lot of it, but that day a particular letter rang out in my head. I suppose it stuck out 'cause my brother's name started with that very same letter (funny little word, with all these coincidences and such, huh?), so it didn't take long to remember. Only a minute or two, but by the time I heard his cell door slam I had it in my head as clear as day. And once the noise of the others had died down and the guards had retreated to their posts outside the door at the end of the hall, I gave it a shot.

_Dot. Dash. Dash. Dash._

The letter 'J.'

If you heard it, it would go something like: tap, a pause; a second tap, a longer pause; another tap, that same longer pause; a final tap.

The sounds were hollow, floating in and out of each cell as they traveled down the hall—the sound of my knuckles rapping against the metal door of my own little room. I held my breath for a moment or two, very much aware that I had literally stopped breathing in the hope that I would hear the faintest of replies. I thought it'd be awfully special to be the first patient to communicate with _him_—if nothing else, I'd have a story to tell out in the yard the next day. But, and I was sad to admit it, no return sound came. So I walked to my cot and plopped myself down, dissolving into a fit of giggles. What a stupid idea.

Then I heard it: the single, soft, hollow sound of a fist knocking against the metal cell door. And, although I couldn't be sure, I was almost certain it had come from across the hall, four doors down. And after a moment of breathless listening, the giggles took me over once more.

_Dot. Dash. Dash. Dash._

Since I'd first tapped out the little message a few months had passed. I kept sending the very same letter about once every week or so. Every time I did there would be a brief pause, a moment of thought I guess, and then a soft knock in response.

That was it. He never looked at me as he passed my cell door, never tried to tap a longer message back. I couldn't even be sure if he knew it was _me_ tapping out his letter. All I had, all I would ever get, was that single tap; a soft "hello" from across the hall.

It made me laugh every time. I bet he could hear me laughing, too. Some days I would just shake my head with a soft chuckle; other days the giggles that shook me were formed of full blown madness. Sometimes my fellow solitary inmates would yell at me to shut up. Once I laughed for so long that a guard came over and banged on my door, told me to "cool it or else."

Or else _what_?

There wasn't all that much left to threaten me with in here. I mean, I had been here for about a decade and a half, and I had seen it, witnessed it, felt it, taken it all. I knew just as well as anyone else that Arkham Asylum is not a happy home for the touched in the head. Guards can be cruel, doctors can be sadistic, and then we have to deal with whatever crazy kind of crazy is rattling around upstairs. Whatever happens in Arkham, stays in Arkham, except for those who escape, but nowadays they usually end up right back inside. And who in their right mind has the time to stop and listen to us, anyway?

After all, the B-man is probably our biggest fan, and he only takes the time to put us back in the hole we crawled out of before moving on to the next schizo or paranoid on his long list of who's who in the seedy underworld of Gotham City.

I used to think that, if I was good enough, I would get out of Arkham. I used to think that was all it would take—a little good behavior here, some sanity there, and I'd be as good as new and ready for the great outdoors. But as the years ticked by, I began to realize that I wasn't getting out. There was never gonna be an out for someone like me. 'Cause I should never have been here in the first place, and when you have problems like _that_ it's best to just sweep 'em under the rug.

Never gonna be an out for... someone like me. An innocent, in the wrong place at the wrong time, a case of self defense, a lost cause, someone who shouldn't be out there squealing and talking and letting all the little secrets out of the bag.

Until, one day, on his way to his time in the solitary yard, something changed. His head was turned down like usual, his arms hanging limply at his sides with the cuffs binding them together. But as he passed my cell door, his scarred lips slowly parted and I heard him say,

"Wait. Here."


	2. Knock, Knock

**A/N: Would like to request two reviews before I update with Chapter 3, if I may be so bold. Other than that, enjoy.**

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><p><em>Wait. Here.<em>

I didn't know what that meant. I mean, where else was I gonna go, Metropolis? I was locked in a solitary cell in Arkham for Christ's sake. And as I've said before, I didn't foresee myself getting out anytime soon.

But I followed his orders—it was mostly because I was locked in a room, not because of some uncontrollable urge to be loyal, but I _did_ follow them—and I "waited here." Then again, if I'd had the run of the place, I still probably would have waited. I mean, when somebody like _that_ tells you to do something, you kinda wanna see why, you know? Wanna see how it all plays out...

About a week or so passed, and though he hadn't said anything more to me since that first order, I still "waited." I started trying to figure out why he had spoken to me, why it was me he had told to wait. Not only that, but I was trying to figure out why he'd given me such a stupid order in the first place.

_Wait. Here._

Since his arrival at Arkham he had never seen me, never spoken to me. He'd never even attempted to steal a glance at my cell door. At best I had the soft echo of a knock he would give me on days I might tap out a metallic 'J.' (Apparently, he hadn't said a word or even acknowledged any of the other prisoners at the asylum, so I should have considered myself special. And I suppose I did. I was special, and I was also really freaking wound up because I had no idea what "Wait. Here." meant.)

I gave it a lot of thought. Serious thought. But for a gal like me who's ate up with crazy, thinking didn't come easy. And it didn't help that I was hopped up on sedatives and happy pills half the time.

But that doesn't mean I didn't try.

_Wait. Here._

More time passed. Blech. It was driving me crazy—well, crazier than usual. He wouldn't say another word to me. And now he wasn't even giving me the pleasure of his single reply whenever I'd tap out his 'J.' I was hung out to dry, with nothing but two words left to rattle around inside my head.

What was I supposed to do with two words? Two stinkin' words that didn't even make sense.

Ugh.

I gave up.

And it was the night that I finally gave up puzzling over his order that the words finally made sense.

That night certainly didn't feel any different. Why should it? I'm not a friggin' psychic. Bedtime rolled around and a guard from outside the hall called "lights out!" And, of course, the inmates shouted and jeered, but the lights in each of our cells went out anyway. The only light that remained came from alternating bulbs in the main stretch of hall, just bright enough to illuminate our doors in case, somehow, one of us managed to get out.

Probably an hour or two after the lights were out, I was still awake. Lying on my cot, staring up at the ceiling, mentally telling myself over and over again that I had absolutely no interest in that crazy's cryptic message, and that I had given up on trying to decipher it, and that it wasn't important and who was I freakin' kidding?

And that was when I heard the explosion.

God, it was _loud_. It freaking shook the whole hall. I rolled out of bed and hit the floor, covering my head for fear a tornado or something was gonna rip through the asylum and kill us all. After the initial shock wore off, that's when the chaos started. Those who were already awake started yelling and hollering, and those who weren't were sure up in a hurry. And pretty soon they had joined in the yelling, too.

The smoke and dust began to clear, and as it did I saw a figure flipping, twirling, and cartwheeling down solitary row. I could hear the guards starting to shout, too, and I was sure they were about to bust through the door at any moment. But through the hole in my cell door I saw that gymnastic shadow come to a stop at the end of the hall and punch a code into the keypad. Which was just the right code to—

"_Emergency defense systems activated,_" said a female's cool voice that echoed through the hall. "_Solitary row __lock down__ initiated._"

A succession of loud, metallic clanks echoed their way down the hall as each of our cell doors locked even tighter. Part of the "lock down" procedure. I'd been through this before, when Scarecrow and his crew tried to bust out all the inmates and "unleash us on the city." Yeah, right, sure, everybody 'cept for a couple of solitary row halls which were just too much trouble to be bothered with. And, of course, I was one of the lucky few dozen that didn't quite make it out. Whoopee for me.

"_All Arkham inmates are advised to remain in their cells until given further instructions_," the woman's voice instructed over the intercom.

Yeah. Right.

"Stop where you are!" shouted a new voice. This one belonged to a man and was a lot more anxious and upset. I recognized it as one of our guards, but he wasn't in the hall. His voice was coming over the intercom.

Huh. The lock down must have been keeping the guards out of the hall. Funny.

"Aw, why don't you just SHUT UP!" cried another voice, this one nasally and thick with a Brooklyn accent. It was a woman's voice, and I realized that it came from whoever had cartwheeled her way down solitary row. "I'm the one givin' orders around here, see?"

And with that I watched as the woman strutted her way back down the hall, tapping security codes into each and every cell door as she went. My eyes widened as I watched prisoners running from their cells, sprinting to the end of the hall where the wall had been blown out to reveal a crisp Gotham night.

As this freakish liberator drew closer to my door I got a better look at her. Dressed in a clown's collection of red and black clothing with a matching jester's cap, the fact that she was skipping down the hallway like a kid on her way to the candy store seemed to fit perfectly.

And then she stopped at my cell. I took a step back from the door, unable to tear my eyes from her or regulate the frantic pumping of my heart. I stood there dumbfounded, watching as she typed in the code to my own door, six cool beeps on a keypad, and in seconds the lock on my door clanked open.

_I. was. free._

She skipped on, opening doors as she went, and I rushed forward and pushed the door ajar. It gave a few inches, and I gasped. Literally, _gasped_. Never before had _I_ pushed the door and watched it open. It was always a guard, never me. And, I'm not gonna lie, it felt good.

Hell, it felt _great_.

But then I stopped. I thought about it. And through the gap in the door, I could see this harlequin tapping in the code to the cell door across the hall and four doors down. And then, slowly, I backed away from the door. I sat on top of my cot, pulling my knees under my chin, wrapping my arms around my legs, and waited.

_Wait. Here._

So I did. I got it now. I understood. I waited.

"Knock, knock, puddin'!" I heard the woman say, her knuckles rapping on the heavy metal door as she punched in the last number to open his cell. I heard some rustling, then footsteps. But I never moved.

"Say hello to your new, improved Harley Quinn!" the woman gushed, and I could imagine her twirling around for giddy inspection. Another long moment of silence, and I could just imagine those dark eyes peering out from their dark eye sockets, narrowing as he took in her appearance.

I wanted to laugh, but I was a bit afraid of being overheard.

"Oh, c'mon, Mistah J," she pouted, and I bet her hat was drooping along with her emotions. "Don'cha like it?"

"Oh, I like it," he said after another long silence, and she squealed with joy. "_Very_ much."

"I just knew ya would!"

"And now... ah... _Harley_... it's time to check ou_-t_."

"You got it!" Harley giggled. "So, where are we headed?"

"You, uh, my dear, are headed out that nicely sized _hole_ in the wall over there."

"Geez, I almost forgot! Everything was going so smoothly, I didn't—!"

"Rule number one, my dear," I heard his voice say coolly as his footsteps signaled his emergence from his cell. "_Never_ underestimate the _Bat_man."

"Well, don't you worry about _him_, puddin'! I'll lead old bats on a goose chase he won't forget!" The clown girl giggled. "See you in a few days!"

And with another giddy laugh and not a moment of hesitation, I heard her turn and skip off towards the end of the hall. I heard a light thump (I imagine she did a flip through the hole in the wall), and then she was gone. For a moment I wondered why she hadn't bothered to unlock any of the cells closest to the wall the explosion had taken out. Then it occurred to me that it _had_ been one hell of an explosion. And I wouldn't have been surprised if the blast had killed those closest to it.

Huh.

A long moment of silence passed, and I realized that all of the prisoners from solitary row were gone. That Harley woman was gone. I was alone, in the hall, with _him_.

I heard his footsteps as he slowly walked down the hall. I could picture his head turning from side to side, observing the rubble, rolling his eyes from one empty cell to another. I saw his shadow fall on my cell door, and I felt my breath catch.

_Yes_, I'd waited. _Yes_, I'd followed orders. But what the hell did he want from me? I hadn't really thought that part out yet...

Supposing he wanted to kill me.

"And now that we're... ah... _alone_," I heard him say quietly. I saw his hand slip through the crack of light, pulling my cell door open and taking a short step inside. His eyes roamed around the walls until they fell on me, his lips smacking once, twice, before his head tilted ever so slightly to the side.

"Well, _hullo_, my dear."


	3. Hitchhikers May Be Escaped Patients

**A/N: Many thanks who reviewed Chapter 2. Chapter 3 is a big longer, as you can see. So I'm upping the ante a bit: 4 reviews before the next chapter? You all can do it! But for now, enjoy Chapter 3: "Hitchhikers May Be Escaped Patients."**

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><p><em>(Oh, brother...)<em>

I didn't move, I didn't breathe. I couldn't have, even if I'd wanted to. I just sat there, staring at him, waiting.

"You seem a little, ah, what's the _word_, uhm... _scared__-uh_..." His tongue flitted out over those scarred lips for a brief moment before his eyes widened curiously. "_That_'s it. Ya scared?"

Everything inside of me was _screaming_ not to answer, but I felt my head shake slowly—like a puppet on a string. I wasn't lying—I mean, I don't think I was scared, not really. I think... I guess 'in awe' is a better way of saying it. This made him giggle, and he skipped in place a step before rushing forward.

In an instant he was crouched in front of me, his hands on mine, licking his lips once more. I flinched away, but my back was against the wall and I had nowhere to go.

"I be-_t_," and he paused, smacking his lips once or twice as his eyes rolled up, before nodding and pushing on. "No, I _know_-uh... I know you're pro-bab-ly _wonder_ing why I told you to, ah, wai-t. Why I'm here _now_ and all of tha-_t_. But this city... _this_city... has a terrible _rodent_ infestation_-uh_, and there's probably a large _ba-t_ on its way over, un-for-tun-ate-_ly_... Do you, uh, get my _drift_-uh?"

This time I nodded.

"_Grrreat_." The word rumbled in his chest as he rose to his feet, his hands fixing over mine and pulling me up along with him. "We can _discuss_ all those... _little_, mmm, _questions_you've got rollin' around up there at a later da-te_._"

He jerked me towards the door so that I would lead the way, then pushed me out into the hall. There was nothing out there now but crumbled bits of brick and cinderblocks and a layer of dust. I hesitated at first—I guess the puppeteer had fallen asleep at the strings—but soon enough he had me moving again. Climbing over the debris, then climbing through the hole in the wall. It wasn't until I had made it a few steps out into the night that I froze up once more.

A decade and a half. It had been over a _decade_ and a _half_ since I had freely walked outside the walls and fences of Arkham Asylum. And now, here I was, finally outside, finally free.

I don't think he ever thought I'd run. But I did.

I took off running, into the bushes and trees, into the darkness. I wasn't running away from him—in fact, once the realization had hit me I'd completely forgotten he was there. I was just running for the sake of it. Because it was a cool night, because there were no fences that could stop me. It was _wonderful_.

And then I was on the ground. Face first into the grass, and he had tackled me from behind. He was now straddling my back, his hands pinning my arms down, and I was breathing in dew and dirt.

"_Now_, now, is _tha-t_ the thanks I get for springing you from the _freak_ show?" he growled, forcing me down with all of his weight.

"Lemme _go_!" I snapped, shaking the hair and grass from my face as I turned to the side, trying to get a glimpse of him.

"I _could_, but it didn't work ou-t so well last time, now _did_ i-t?"

"I'm sorry," I gasped, fighting less and less with every passing moment. I mean, he _was_ right after all. "I wasn't thinking... I won't... won't do it again, I swear..."

He giggled, and I heard a soft _clink!_ from somewhere over my head. The next thing I knew, I had a blade pressed to the side of my throat.

"Well, _I_ know tha_-t_, but, ah, how do I know that _you_ know it, too?"

This time I kept my mouth shut. It was one thing to disobey a grade A nutjob, it was another to argue with a grade A nutjob holding a knife. I watched the blade come closer, watched it stop only an inch from my eye.

"Scared _now_?" he asked with a giggle, and though I didn't answer at first, I didn't move either. I didn't—no, _couldn't_ look away from that knife. After all, you _never_ look away from something you're afraid of.

I'd learned that a long time ago.

After a long and very breathless moment I answered his question, "Yes."

"Good!" he chuckled before leaning over me, so close that I could feel his hot breath on the side of my face. He was looking sideways now, trying to see the blade on the same level that I was. Out of the corner of my eye I watched a kinda dissatisfied frown contradict his scar of a smile. "Ya know, I'm _no-t_ a big fan of this one."

_The knife_, I thought to myself. Even my thoughts were quiet and hushed. Like I was afraid he could hear me thinking. _Please,_**_please_**_let him be talking about the knife and not me..._

"How come?" I asked after a moment of hesitation. Did he really want me to ask, was he just toying with me, were these my last minutes? Hundreds of little questions rattling around up there with all my craziness to boot.

"_Because_," he said in a shuddering breath, and soon his hand was wrapped around mine and his fingers were forcing the handle of the knife into my palm. He held my hand in his, shifting it up and down as though trying to get me to feel the weight. "It's _bulky_ and _heavy_, and the _blade_ is too thi_-ck_."

After a minute I realized he was right, and I felt my fingers curling around the handle in an awkward way that had nothing to do with his hand over mine. Yeah, he was right. The handle was weighty, and the blade had a funny shape that couldn't be effective at all. I figured that Harley woman had given this to him—how else would he have gotten hold of a knife like that in a high security mental institution?—and I also kinda figured that she had bought it herself. This wasn't _his_ knife. He never would have wanted one like this.

I was about to ask if I was right, but I realized that he wasn't looking at the knife anymore. He was looking down at me. Watching me think, I guess.

"_Now_," he asked quietly after a long silence, "if I let you u-_p_, will you behave, hmm?"

"Yes," I answered, and I turned my face into the ground. I didn't like the way he could stare at me—I swear, even then I felt like he could see right through me.

"_Good_-uh."

He crawled off me, stumbling to his feet, and I waited a minute before getting to my feet, too. He turned his head a weird way, as though to stretch, and then sighed. He twirled the knife in his hand before motioning forward with it.

"Lead the way, _dear_," he ordered, and I did as I was told.

He steered me through the hedges and trees, farther and farther away from Arkham Asylum. We were close to the road—I knew, 'cause I heard the sirens of police cars whizzing by not long after we had started walking again. At first I started to think a search would be after us soon, and we'd be caught for sure. But no one ever caught up to us. Not a soul.

After I finally stopped worrying about a search party, I started to think something else might be following us—maybe the Batman. But after a little while, that died away too. I mean, why would the Bat let us get this far away from the asylum? No, he would have hauled us back ages ago if he was on our tail.

No, we were on our own.

After a while we came to a bigger road—one with a little more traffic and a lot less cop cars. He planted us beside a road sign—_WARNING: HITCHHIKERS MAY BE ESCAPED PATIENTS_—and, after he had looked up and down the road a few times, he knelt down close to the ground and looked up at me with dark, shining eyes.

"Time to _earn_ your _keep_," he said, nodding towards the road and the passing cars. At first I didn't understand, but his point seemed to dawn on me after a moment, and I turned to face the road.

Arm out, fingers clenched, thumb up.

"Don't you think," I said after the twentieth car zoomed by, "we could have picked a better place for this? Standing next to this sign doesn't really help..."

He only giggled, shaking his head, and I realized it was all a joke. One big joke. And that joke was gonna be on whatever poor sap pulled over and decided to do us a favor.

And suddenly I hoped no one pulled over.

But only a few minutes later, when traffic had died down, a nice sized semi pulled off onto the shoulder of the road and the window rolled down. And I felt a lump form in my throat as he rose to his feet beside me, a broad smile on those lips.

"Where you headin'?" a man with a thick country accent, trucker hat and complete with toothpick-in-mouth yelled through the passenger window.

"_Just down the roa-duh_," he breathed in my ear, and I could feel that smile against my skin.

"A little ways on down the road," I called back, trying to look as appealing as I could in my scrub shirt and pants.

"Both of yuh?" he asked, and even through the darkness I could see a frown of disappointment on his face.

"Can't have one without the other," I answered. Trying to help our odds, I flashed the man a little smile, and even rocked my shoulders back and forth in what I hoped look like a suggestive gesture. How would I know, I hadn't tried to be sexy since I was a kid, and even then I wasn't very good at it...

_(That's not what he used to tell you.)_

The thought was like a spotlight passing over my mind, there one minute and gone the next. I had no idea where it'd come from, and I blinked it away as I heard him cackle in my ear. His face turned down—probably trying to hide his face and his scars in his hair—and as he did, I heard the trucker laugh too.

"Well, awright then, I guess you two oughtta get in."

I felt a pinch on my arm, and I moved forward to open the cab door, climbing up into the bench seat with him following close behind me. When the door was shut tight the Mr. Trucker shifted his rig into gear and soon we were off.

"So, what're you doin' way out here, little missy?" Mr. Trucker asked, looking sideways at me before turning his attention out to the road.

"Nothin' special," I answered in a very casual way, hoping I was coming off as cool and calm as I thought I was.

"Well, it ain't safe for a little thing like you to be out on a big ol' stretch uh road like this so late at night. 'Specially all alone like you are."

"No _-t_ _alone_-uh," I heard my jailbird companion say from my side. Pretty sure I was the only who heard him, though, or the only one who cared. After all, he didn't look all that menacing at the moment—slightly hunched over, his hands pressed flat together in front of his knees. I doubt Mr. Trucker even cared that he was there.

"Well, I'm a big girl," I said with a smile. "I can take care of myself pretty well."

"I bet you can." He looked at me once more, this time his eyes raking over me in a way I didn't quite like. They lingered too long on my neck, probed at the V-neck of my shirt, and seemed to be imagining what was under the pants I wore.

As discreetly as I could, I scooted away from Mr. Trucker and closer to my scarred captor. I know he felt me move, even if he didn't look at me, but I thought I heard a quiet "hmm-hmm" of a muffled laugh coming from him. His head was turned towards the window, and I was sure he hadn't seen the way Mr. Trucker was watching me.

I dunno if he would have cared, though, even if he had seen.

"Where was it y'said you were headed, hon?" Mr. Trucker asked after a good ten minutes of silent driving and stealing sick glances at me when he thought I wasn't looking. I opened my mouth dumbly with no real answer prepared, but before I even began stumbling through some idiotic answer, my silent companion finally spoke up.

"Smiley's Motel," he said in what I thought might be an attempt at a normal voice. It was certainly lower than what I had become used to during the short time I'd known him, not quite as nasally or cool or accented. And it sounded a lot more forced, too.

"Well, then, it's uh good thing I asked 'cause we're jus' about there!" Mr. Trucker said with a chuckle, pointing to a not-so-far-off neon sign in the distance. We'd be there in a matter of moments.

_Thank God_, I couldn't help thinking. The sooner we were out of this sick-o's cab the better.

Before long we'd pulled into a parking lot in front of a pretty crappy looking motel, by the looks of it. Now up close, I could see the brightly lit neon sign from the road: a winking smiley face beside the words _SMILEY'S MOTEL_, and below that, flashing on and off, the word _VACANCY._ When the truck had finally come to a stop, I turned to flash that fake smile at Mr. Trucker for what I hoped was the final time.

"Well, thanks a lot for your help," I said in false gratitude. The truth was I'd rather have walked than sat next to this creep. "Really appreciate it."

"My pleasure," Mr. Trucker said with a grin that made me even more eager to get away from him. I turned to look at my fellow escapee and moved even closer to him as his hand lifted to open the door. But then I froze.

Mr. Trucker's big, rough hand had grabbed hold of my arm. And it didn't feel like he planned on letting go anytime soon.

"Hold on now, little missy, jus' where d'you think yur goin'?" he asked, and I knew better than to answer.

Well, I _thought_ I knew better.

"We're getting out," I said quickly. "This is our stop."

"Oh, now, you don' think I was givin' y'all a ride out of the goodness of my little ol' heart, do yuh?" Mr. Trucker said with that wicked grin that set my skin crawling, and I swallowed hard. "C'mon now, hon, I gotta get somethin' in return."

I stared at him blankly. He didn't _actually_ think this was going to go down, did he?

"Look, mister, I don't know who you think you are, but—"

"I think I'm the awfully swell guy who gave you and yur friend a ride. And now I think I deserve a little somethin' for my time." His eyes roamed over me once more before shifting to his other passenger. "I'd say you better be gettin' lost for a lil' while, friend. She'll be along shortly."

"Ha, aha, ahuh, _no_," that cold, quiet voice said, and it was far less composed than it had been before. But his head never turned away from the door, his face still carefully hidden. "She'll be, ah, coming with _me_."

"I don' think yur hearin' is all that good, _friend_," Mr. Trucker said, and his voice was getting colder, too. He jerked my arm, and me along with it, closer to him, and I gasped as I was practically pulled into his lap. "I _said_ get outta my cab."

I stared across the small stretch of seat at the hunched over figure, and I watched as his hand curled tight around the door handle. For a brief moment I wondered what all I'd heard about him was true and what was just stories, and at the same time I wondered how angry he was at being told "no" and how much spontaneous fury he was holding in.

Slowly his head rotated around so that both Mr. Trucker and me could see a side of his face—a profile of his dark eyes, his darkened eye sockets, his scarred cheeks and chapped lips.

"The hell is wrong with yur face?" Mr. Trucker demanded, recoiling slightly at the mere sight of the scars. I think by now I was so nervous I had hardly even noticed them...

"Mmhmm, let her _go_," he said coolly, ignoring the truck driver's words.

"You little shit, you got somethin' wrong with yur face _and_ yur head," Mr. Trucker shouted, and I could tell he was getting nervous now. Scared, even. And scared people... they do desperate things... "Now get the _hell_ outta my cab!"

There was another pause as he seemed to consider these words for a moment before he straightened a little, his eyes rolling upward and his eyelids fluttering.

"This little, mmm, _quick_-ie is no-t for _you_," he told the trucker, wetting his lips as he did so. "But if you let her _go_, I can promise you a qui-ck job you'll never forge_-t_."

"Yur one sick little freak," Mr. Trucker laughed cruelly, and then something changed. I was watching that scarred faced and watching it close, and it was darker now, colder, serious...

"You don't wanna do this, mister," I said quietly, trying to pull away from the driver as my eyes fell from that dark profile. I didn't want to look at him anymore, even though I could still see him (_never look away from anything you're scared of_) out of the corner of my eye. Instead I was looking at the cab's floor, at crumpled up food wrappers, cigarette butts, toothpicks, dead grass and caked up dirt.

But he yanked me back once more, his grip so tight it made me wince.

"You shuddup now, hon, us big boys are talkin'."

"Please..." I said quietly, but I wasn't really talking to Mr. Trucker as much as I was talking to _him_. I didn't want to be here anymore, didn't want to see what would happen next.

"Hear that?" the driver asked over my head, a cocky grin on his lips. "Already askin' me 'please.' Next she'll be beggin' for it, huh?"

I heard him laugh, a deep sound that shook his beer belly, and I cringed away from the foul smell of his breath as he did. But then I realized Mr. Trucker wasn't the only one laughing.

_He_ was laughing, too, slowly, enunciating every "ha" and "aha" and "aho" before the fake sounds actually became something real, a low chuckle at first, which quickly became something high pitched and crazy and out of control. He grinned from ear to ear, turning to face Mr. Trucker and me completely before suddenly lunging forward.

He had that bulky, heavy knife with the too-thick blade in his hand and his smile was so big and his eyes were so bright—

And I finally yanked my arm out of Mr. Trucker's grip just as I heard the squelch of the blade slicing into flesh, and I felt a warm liquid spray on my arm, and without even realizing it I had pulled away from the trucker—he was gasping for air by now, and gushing blood all over himself—and found my face turned into _his_ shoulder...

From my place against him I felt his arm rear back to make another cut in the trucker—that same, soft squelch followed by that same spray of fresh blood on my arm—but I didn't want to be leaning against him or back in that trucker's grip or anywhere near this cab. I needed out of here, or I was gonna be sick, gonna—

I felt his hand come up behind my head, and at first it felt like he was cradling my head, like he might hold me, but then his fingers curled through my hair and he was wrenching me around in front of him. He threw the cab door open and dragged me out quickly—still by my hair—and practically threw me out of his hold. I lost my footing, collapsed to the cold pavement, and then I lost my dinner in a mess of chunky, yellow vomit.

After a minute or two I thought I'd gotten it all out of my system. I lifted my hand to wipe the spittle from my mouth, and then I saw the trucker's blood on my arm and a fresh wave of nausea hit me. I couldn't remember eating all this food, I had no idea where it was coming from, but it was making a pretty impressive little puddle on the concrete.

"Are you _finished_ ye-t?" that nasally voice asked from just beside me a few minutes later, and I glanced sideways to see his white shoes only inches from my little puddle of creamy yuck.

"Is he...?" I asked, breathless at first, trying to find the words. "Is he d-dead...?"

"Mmhmm," I heard him answer, but it sounded more like a giggle.

I went quiet. On all fours with my head still hanging over the vomit, the tips of my hair dipped in it, I slowly crawled backward and came to a stop when I could lean back against one of the truck's tires. I breathed the cool night air in through my nose, taking it in, closing my eyes for a moment before nodding.

"Good," I finally replied.

I think he liked that answer.

When I was finally on my feet again, he handed me a wad of bills held together by a rubber band and told me to go into the main office of Smiley's Motel and to get us a room. I did as I was told. I mean, I wasn't gonna tell him no, was I?

Okay, granted, he _had_ just killed a guy in cold blood, and that maybe should have been the first sign that I was in over my head. But, that same now-dead guy was gonna rape me and God knows what else, all because he'd given us a lift a few miles down the road. He wasn't a good guy, wasn't even half-decent. I doubt the world was gonna miss him.

I sure as hell know _I_ wasn't going to.

So, no, I didn't go into that office and tell the clerk that there was a crazy guy outside with a knife that had just killed a man. I told the clerk that I'd like a room, two queens, and clean towels and sheets if this place had anything like that. The clerk thought I was funny, laughed even, and exchanged a few of my bills for a couple keys to room #4.

When he asked me to sign the register, I panicked for a second or two before taking the pen in hand with a smile. Honestly, I needed to just chill out. He wasn't asking for ID. He just wanted a name. I probably could've put down Jane Doe and he wouldn't have noticed.

But I didn't. I wrote the first name that came to mind: _H. Quinn_.

When I came out of the office, I found my favorite murderer standing by the door, twirling a key ring with several keys on his finger. I figured it went to the semi-truck, no big deal. It was reasonable to think he'd have to make the body and the truck disappear.

I think even I'd laugh if he could pull off that one.

I gave him one of the keys and led him to the door of room #4. It was a simple door: a dark forest green, almost black, with a rusty '4' hanging on it. I slipped the key in, turned it, and opened the door to the first actual room I'd been in since I was admitted to Arkham Asylum.

Before I'd even had the chance to give the room a glance over, though, I felt something heavy collide with the back of my head, and then I crashed to the floor.

And that's when it all went black.


	4. Haircut

**A/N: So, this isn't my favorite chapter so far, but I promised I'd have a new one up by Monday and here it is. Basically a lot of set up for later plot, but there's more Joker so that's always good. We got 2 reviews for the last chapter, so could I at least ask for 3 brand new reviews before the next chapter is put up? Because reviews make me happy! And you always want to make the writer happy, right? ;) Enjoy!**

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><p><em>"Is he dead?"<em>

_"Mmhmm."_

_"Good."_

_Dot. Dash. Dash. Dash._

_I tapped the words against the wall, smiling the whole time. When I had finished there was a pause, and then another series of taps came from the other side._

_Dash. Dot. Dash. Dot._

_It was a 'C.' _

_He never called me by my name—well, never called me by my __**first**__ name. He liked my middle name more. Carine. Our dad had picked it out, mom had told us once. She didn't like it all that much, and she hated it when J called me by it, but I didn't care. I liked it better than the boring old first name mom had given me anyway._

_Jillian. _

_What a stupid name._

_Jack Louis and Jillian Carine. Twins named Jack and Jill. God, how lame could you get? _

_But J called me Carine. He had other names for me, too. Names to tease me with. Sometimes he called me 'Lillian,' or 'Carina,' 'Carnie,' sometimes 'Carrie' when I was really angry or he felt like I was blowing things out of proportion. And there were plenty others. _

_An hour or two passed before I heard another knock on the wall. It wasn't anything fancy, wasn't even really a code. It was just a single, soft tap. I stared at the wall for a moment before tapping once in reply. _

_He wanted to know if I was asleep yet. _

_A few minutes later I heard my door open and close, heard footsteps cross the room before I felt the edge of the bed sink a little. _

_"Still awake?" he asked quietly through the darkness, and I only nodded. He laid down beside me on the bed, and I let out a sigh. _

_When we were kids we'd shared a room. I think I'd liked that better. If I ever had a nightmare he would always know, and he'd wake me up before it got too bad; I'd do the same for him, too. And when he was there, I always knew I had someone watching over me. 'Cause J wouldn't ever let anything bad happen to me. _

_But when you got to be teenagers, things changed. Mom said it wasn't right for us to share a room—we were too old, and brothers and sisters shouldn't sleep in the same room once they got to be so old. It was all about privacy and junk._

_If our mom only knew..._

_"Carine?"_

_"Yeah?"_

_"I don't feel so good..."_

_I was quiet for a moment before rolling over to face him. He had his back to me, and I propped myself up on my elbow to try to get a better look at him._

_"Why? What's wrong?"_

_"I dunno, I just feel kinda... lightheaded..."_

_I watched him at first, then touched his arm. He hesitated, then rolled over to face me, and I felt the color drain out of my face. I slapped both hands over my mouth to keep from screaming, but I really think I couldn't have screamed even if I wanted to—I was sure I had stopped breathing, sure I didn't have the air in my lungs to muster up a whisper let alone a scream._

_There was blood everywhere. In his hair, on his face, dripping down his throat and soaking through his shirt. And it was coming from a pair of scars cut into the corners of his mouth, scars just like the ones that had been cut into that trucker's face, just like—_

_"Lightheaded, Carnie. Get it?" Jack prompted, sitting up slowly with a broad smile on his bloody face. "'Cause it's a lot of blood. I'm __**lightheaded.**__"_

_Never look away from something you're afraid of._

_"Is he dead?"_

_Dot. Dash. Dash. Dash._

_"Mmhmm."_

_Dash. Dot. Dash. Dot._

_"Good."_

When I sat up, I was drenched in sweat. My terror had soaked through my scrubs, had bled into the blankets, I wouldn't have been surprised if it had dripped right down into the sheets...

I pulled my hair away from my face, out of my eyes, breathing hard the whole time, almost panting, trying to wipe the sweat off my face and get a sense of what was happening.

"Just a dream," I gasped out loud, shaking my head as I jumped off a bed and onto my feet. "Just a dream, wasn't real..."

_Who are you trying to convince?_ a voice from the back of my crazy-fogged brain asked.

"God, you've been around him for less than a day and he's already inside your head..." I said, trying to drown out the voice. "You're a real piece of work..."

_Oh, he was in our head a long time ago. When we first started tapping out that letter—__**J**__'s letter—to him from our cell, he was in our head even then. It didn't take much, either, did it? Just a single look and we were smitten. Moths to a flame and all that, remember?_

I shook my head, turning in circles once or twice as I tried to get my bearings. What did I remember last? There had been the trucker, and then I'd checked us in—

_If I were you—and I am—I'd get myself back to the crazy house before we get ourselves into real trouble. This guy is nothing but problems. He's already killed one person—_

"To protect me," I murmured to myself, eyes roaming the motel room without really seeing anything.

_And God knows how many other people he'll kill. We've heard the stories, we know what he's capable of. No, better we went back to the padded cell before the men in the white coats have to drag us back kicking and screaming._

"But I don't want to go back there..."

_Better than what he's got us in for. He's a whole different kind of crazy. We can't handle him. And he'll make us worse, break us right along that fracture we've got running along inside our head. Are you sure we're ready for that? _

_'Cause I sure don't think so._

_And that means you don't think so either._

I was quiet for a long time, standing very still. No, I wasn't hearing voices. No, I'm not _that_ crazy. But I had to admit that the logic was there, plain as day. I wasn't wrong... he could break my already damaged brain into a hundred little pieces and then some. Even I had to admit that I might not be able to handle whatever it is he had kept me for...

But then again, I'd never know if I didn't try, would I? And what was the worst that would happen?

I'd go back to Arkham? Hell, I was headed there anyway if I didn't stick it out and see this thing through.

I'd go even crazier? Pfft, I wouldn't mind a good dose of the crazies. What I had was so simple, so basic. No hallucinations, no voices, no split personalities, no obsessions. Just a head full of bad memories I couldn't quite remember and work through, memories that came to me in dreams and nightmares like broken pieces of an already-too-complicated jigsaw puzzle. That, and a knack for being in the wrong place at the wrong time.

Then there was the possibility that I'd die, that he'd kill me or I'd get killed while tagging along...

"What the hell," I said to myself. "You're as good as dead if you go back to that hell hole anyway. Might as well make the most of it."

By now I wasn't panting anymore, and I'd coolled off a bit. A sense of calm was creeping over me, up my spine and over my head before it rushed down to my toes like a roller coaster ride. I had my wits about me, and I started to reason through what had happened. The trucker, the room, and then...

Oh yeah, that's right, he'd knocked me out cold.

"Really knows how to treat a lady," I grumbled to myself, glancing over at the bed I had gotten up from only minutes ago. The blankets and sheets were all twisted up, like I'd been tossing around in my sleep.

Huh. He'd actually taken the time to put me on the bed...

Before he'd left, that is. He wasn't here, I could tell that with one look around the tiny motel room. But I could tell he'd been in and out. For one thing, there was a set of clothes laid out on the other bed, the one I _had't_ destroyed during my nightmare, and they looked like they were about my size. I crossed to them, running my fingers over the fabric.

My first outfit that hadn't consisted of scrubs or an inmate's uniform in years.

It wasn't really special. A black jacket, black pants, a deep purple tanktop. But no, that wasn't true, it _was_ special 'cause I'd be wearing something other than this ridiculous scrub set that I could never quite pull off.

I grabbed the top and pants and went to the bathroom, flipping the lightswitch on a bit hesitantly. It was a grimy bathroom, that was true, but I'll give it credit—it wasn't anywhere _near_ as bad as I thought it would be. The shower was a little yellowed, just like the tile and sink, but everything in this place looked a little worse for wear.

I walked to the sink and heard myself laugh. There was a toothbrush, toothpaste, soap, shampoo, a razor... We're talking above and beyond Gotham motel hospitality. No, my fellow escapee had been so kind as to grab the essentials whenever he'd gotten my outfit. How thoughtful.

I folded up the clothes and laid them on the toilet lid before closing the bathroom door and turning the water to the shower on. It took me a minute to figure it out—I hadn't taken a private shower in forever; I was more used to the group hosing they called a communal shower at that hell of an asylum—but I got it eventually, and I let the water heat up while I slipped out of my prison uniform for what I hoped was the last time.

By the time I'd gotten into the shower, the water was so hot it practically burned my skin. But in all honesty, I didn't care. To me, warm showers were a rarity. Just as rare as any other amenity. And I'd use up every single drop of hot water this hole-in-the-wall motel had if I could. 'Cause it felt great.

When I started soaping down, I realized I still had the trucker's dried blood on my arm. There was even some on my neck and cheek that I'd never had the chance to notice. I scrubbed it off as quick as I could, but I couldn't shake the feeling it was still there. Like I couldn't get it off, a kinda crawling on my skin, y'know? The blood, the grime from that asylum that I don't think I'd ever be able to wash off, that gross feeling that I couldn't ever _really_ get clean... But I had a wild imagination, even I knew that.

Shaving was a treat. I mean, I might have still felt the prison on me, but I still hadn't felt this clean in ages. I used a whole handful of that freaking shampoo. A _handful_. You couldn't see what color my hair was past the white of those soapy suds. Hell, I don't think anyone had ever had as much fun in a shower as I was having then.

Well, I'd take that back...

When I'd finally gotten a good deal of the shampoo out of my hair—and out of my eyes—I turned to let the water run down my back again, and that was when I saw him. It was really quick, just a glimpse, and when I blinked he was gone. Even now I don't know if it was just a trick of the light, the soap in my eyes, or what. But I'd swear I'd seen him standing in the doorway, and that as soon as he realized I'd spoted him he was gone.

It was only a couple minutes later that I ran out of hot water. It was a sudden burst of cold and then nothing _but_ cold water, and I knew my time was up. Sadly I killed the water, grabbed for a towel, and dried off. Pretty soon I was dressed up in the clothes he'd brought me (_ha, like a little dress up doll_) and had gladly brushed my teeth.

When I finally came out of the bathroom still towel drying my hair, I found him pacing back and forth beside his bed, his face turned down and his bright eyes on the floor. It was like killing that trucker had been his fix, and now he was high as a kite, jazzed, and ready to take on the world. But that wasn't all that had happened.

I had changed and so had he.

He was dressed in a pretty nice suit, by the looks of it. A very purple suit, too. Purple overcoat and pants, a green vest, a sort of brown and orange neck tie, and a blue shirt with a funky geometric pattern.

His face was different, too. White greasepaint all over, red along his lips and scars, black ringed around his eyes. And his hair... he'd put some kind of gel in it, I guess, to make it stringier, curlier, and I think even a little green.

"You knocked me out," I said pretty plainly, and he looked up at me a bit more darkly than I would have liked. He took a moment to think my words over, I guess, but then he smiled.

_I'm gonna take that as a good sign..._

"I had some, ah, _errands_ to run," he said before standing up a bit straighter, as though modeling his outfit. "Whaddyou think?"

"I _think_ you just enjoy jerking me around, like a mad dog with one of those rope toys," I said as I moved to a rickety old dresser, looking over the assortment of knives he had laid out since he'd come back. These were _so_ different from the knife he'd killed the trucker with. They were lean and light, some of them had retractable blades. These looked more like his style, looked more like something he'd kill with.

"And the suit's very nice, by the way," I added as I picked up one of the sharper blades. I don't think he cared all that much about what I thought of his suit, though. He was a bit more fixated on the way I was fondling one of his knives. I glanced up at him with a small smile, catching him in the act as he started to cross the room to me. He froze, but I thought it was funny. He didn't want me handling his _babies_. "Mind if I use this?"

"Yeah," he answered coldly with a lick of his lips, but I took it anyway and walked back to the bathroom. He was watching me pretty closely—I'd even say nervously if I thought someone like him could be nervous.

I stopped in front of the mirror and lifted the knife, bunching my hair up in my hand before I began shearing it off. He had followed me a few more steps and I had the feeling his eyes were stuck on the blade sawing back and forth. You'd think he had a thing for knives or something.

_Ha._ What a _crazy_ thought, right?

"Are you, ahem, upse_-t_ about what happened to our _frrr_iend, the _truck_ driver?" he asked, now standing in the bathroom's doorway. He never looked away from the knife, though.

"Nope, not a bit," I said calmly, trying to make sure I cut the hair as evenly as I could. The odds were against me, though.

"Mmhmm, hmm, you sure?"

"Positive," I answered, but I wasn't so sure to be honest. Not anymore. Mostly because he was bugging me about it. He moved even closer, and I froze as his gloved hand wrapped around mine, loosening my fingers and taking the knife from me.

"Well, you were _talking_ in your _slee_-p," he said as he lifted the knife to the back of my hair, cutting through the tangles with a lot more experience than me. "Something about, uh, _blood-uh._"

_Talking in my sleep_, I thought to myself. I didn't like that. I'd never done that before—least, not that I knew of. But I tried to pretend like I didn't care. But I could see him staring at me in the mirror's reflection, and once again I had that feeling that he could see right through me.

"Just a bad dream... Nothing special."

He laughed, his gaze swaying from my reflection. He was slowly working his way around my hair, and soon his arms were practically around my neck to get to my bangs.

I didn't like it. It'd be so easy for him to just break my neck if he wanted to...

"Now, now, if you're going to be par-_t_ of our little t-eam, you can't be keeping _secrets_." He was giggling to himself now, cutting of a good chunk of my hair before lowering his hands to my shoulders. We both looked at my reflection in the mirror, and then we looked down at how he was holding the knife to my throat.

Lightly pressed against the skin, almost casually, as though he didn't even realize it was there, but he did, he sure did...

"Who says I want to be a part of your team?" I asked, staying perfectly still.

"Oh, I think you would have run faster than _tha_-t if you didn't _want_ to," he said matter of factly, turning the blade in his fingers so that the point turned against my skin. He wetted his lips, let his eyes roll back for a moment like he was thinking, and then went on. "No, if you want to _earn_ your _keep_-uh like a good little carney, you'll—"

"What?" I said in a breath. In an instant, I didn't care about the knife, or about him, or anything. It was what he'd said that bothered me.

_If you want to earn your keep like a good little carney..._

"Problem?" he asked, his head tilting to the side a bit. He wasn't looking at my reflection now, he was looking straight at me.

But I wasn't in his hold for much longer. I quickly jerked away, glaring at him as I backed away. I didn't even notice that when I did, his knife dug its way into my throat and cut a clean slice right down my neck with a little curve at the end. Kinda like a 'J' now that I think about it.

But right then I didn't care.

"What did you just call me?"

"A carney, I think_-uh_," he said with an arch of his eyebrow, twirling that knife. "Do you have some kind of _aversion_ to, ah, circus fol-_k_?"

I looked down at the floor and shook my head, but my eyes were wide and I wasn't seeing the floor. I was seeing the bloody face of my brother as he smiled at me with those grotesque, dreamed up scars...

_Lightheaded, Carnie. Get it?_

But that had been my brother, and _this_ wasn't my brother. He didn't know my nickname. He was talking about carnival workers, carneys for short...

I was making mountains out of mole hills here. Blowing things out of proportion. I just needed to chill out. 'Cause if I didn't, I was gonna get myself killed.

When I finally looked back up at my captor, he was leaning with one arm against the sink, still twirling that knife, smirking, holding in a laugh.

"You're, uh, _bleed-ing_ all over your new ou-tfi-t," he said, motioning to my neck with his blade.

I lifted a hand to my skin, feeling the blood on my fingers, looking down at the red liquid on my hand and swallowing hard. I moved to the sink and quickly washed it off—

_(Hate blood, can't stand it, gotta get it off, J, get it off me, oh, God, J, get it off...)_

Then grabbed up a hand towel to soak and press to the cut. It wasn't too deep or too serious. Just a cut, nothing more. I glanced up at the mirror and saw that the damage was already done. There was a pretty line of scarlet that had soaked into my shirt, blending with the purple to make a black-ish color.

And in the meantime, he hadn't even moved. Not once. He was still leaning against the sink, and now I was inches away, and his eyes were on the cut and the blood. I heard him breathe in deeply through his nose, and for a second I thought he was trying to smell me, but then I thought he was trying to smell the blood. And that didn't realize surprise me.

He leaned a bit closer, and I watched him—or rather, his reflection. I watched his hand—the one free of the knife, thank God—lift and touch my hair, rubbing the now-short blond locks between his fingers. When he pulled them away, I could see blood from my neck, from my hair, on the purple leather of his gloves. He rubbed his fingers and thumb together, eyelids fluttering for a moment, and then he smiled with a soft growl.

"Mmmm, get cleaned u_-p_," he said in a low voice, tilting his head again as his eyes rolled up to meet mine. "We're, ah, we're gonna go ou_-t_ for a while."

"Where?" I asked, pressing down on the towel a bit harder to try to stem the bleeding.

"You've been cooped u-p in a six by five cell for, ah, _years_, and when _I_ say we're _going ou-t_, you're gonna ask _where_?" He said this all very casually, before smiling with those scars curling up at the ends. "Now tha_-t_'s funny."

_(Oh, brother, you better cut out the jokes...)_


End file.
